


We Should Leave

by bex_xo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, It felt good to write some Sansan, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Wedding Prompt, drunk Sansa, sober Sandor, this was fun to write!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bex_xo/pseuds/bex_xo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small part of her, the deep down sober, reasonable part of her, is telling the very drunk part of her to shut up right now, but the drunk part of her is too busy checking Sandor out.</p>
<p>Prompt: "I'm really drunk, please help me get safely out of the way before I ruin my best friends wedding."</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Should Leave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahcakes613](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/gifts).



  
The wedding had been beautiful, really and truly. Margaery was gorgeous, her dress an understated silk taffeta A line gown, with a sweetheart neckline and a banded waist. Simple, classy and elegant, she was the picture of innocence and sweetness. If you had asked Sansa a couple of years ago if this is what she had expected Margaery Tyrell to wear to her wedding, she probably would have laughed at you.   
  
Though the Margaery she knew a few years ago, would have never dated Bronn Blackwater, let alone marry him. Obviously her childhood friend had grown as a person over the course of her college career, and Sansa was really happy for her, and admittedly a tiny bit jealous.

It wasn’t like she wanted Bronn, she wasn’t that type of jealous or anything. No, she was jealous that Margaery seemed to have her life together, something that Sansa had been failing at recently. That at 25 years old her best friend was on cloud nine, married to the love of her life, in a career that was perfect for her. Basically everything Sansa had ever wanted.  
  
Except Sansa had none of that, which was why she had started drowning her sorrows in a bottle of Pinot Grigio as soon as all the toasting was done for the night and she was officially out of bridesmaid duties. She hadn’t intended on getting drunk, not really, but she also hadn’t stopped drinking when she knew she had hit her limit. No, instead she grabbed a second bottle from the wine bar and settled herself into a table at the  back of the ballroom.   
  
This was of course where Sandor Clegane found her, half way done with her second bottle and mumbling to herself like a semi crazy drunk.   
  
 Sandor was a friend of Bronn’s, someone Sansa had considered a casual acquaintance over the last few years. They weren't quite friends, actually Sansa was completely convinced that Bronn was the only friend Sandor ever had, but that was neither here nor there. Despite their seemingly mutual indifference with each other, there was something intriguing about the older man that Sansa had never admitted out loud.   
  
“How much have you had to drink, little bird?” Sandor asks, waving his hand in front of her face. Just how long had he been talking to her, was she that drunk that she hadn’t noticed this hulk of a man in front of her?  
  
“Oh. I don’t know. A bottle.”  She whispers.   
  
Or thought she whispered.   
  
“Jesus Christ Sansa, I’m standing right here, no need to yell.”  
  
“Sor.. sor.. sorry. Imma bit tipsy. A bit.” She says, rubbing her hand at her temple and doing the best she can to really focus on what is being said to her.  
  
“More than a bit I’d say.” Sandor replies while taking up the chair next to her. Of course he looks ridiculous, his too big body crammed in a reception hall chair. It makes her giggle, which makes him snarl.  
  
“I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore. You, Sandor Clegane, are not scary. Actually, you’re kinda cute.”  
  
That makes him chuckle. A small part of her, the deep down sober, reasonable part of her, is telling the very drunk part of her to shut up right now, but the drunk part of her is too busy checking Sandor out. His suit was cut just right for his frame, fitted perfectly in all the right places, while his normally loose hair was pulled back into a man bun, probably at the insistence of Margaery.   
  
He’s impressive, very tall, very muscular, with inky, long, black hair and steel gray eyes. Then there are his scars. Spreading from hairline to jawline across the left side of his face, the skin is tight and pink, almost waxy in quality, and incapable of growing anything but patchy hair where the right side of his face is covered in a full beard. Once he told her the terrifying story of his scars, a night a few years ago when he was the one who had hit the bottle too hard.   
  
That was the night Sansa had started seeing him differently, not that she was ready to admit that to anyone but herself.  
  
It was also right about the the time she had started fantasizing about this brute of a man. Of what his hands would feel like on her skin, his lips on hers. Whether his kisses would be soft and tender, or searing and brutal, and how his body would fit over hers.  
   
Sandor was snapping his fingers in front of her face again, and she couldn’t help but flush, embarrassed to be caught zoning out again.   
  
“That’s it little bird. I’m cutting you off.” Sandor says, pushing a glass of water into one of her hands while taking the bottle of wine out of the other.  
  
“Aren’t you going to say anything to me? I called you cute and you completely blow me off.”  
  
“Sansa. You’re drunk. You won’t remember this in the morning.”  
  
“Yes I will. I think you’re cute even when I’m sober. Not that I’ve ever told anyone that. Not that I would of told you that while sober.” She was rambling now, and she wished he would just cut her off so she would shut up.   
  
“Men in their 30′s don’t normally find being called cute a good thing little bird. Puppies are cute. Just because they call me the Hound, does’t mean I need the puppy comparison.” He says bluntly.  
  
“Oh, Well how about handsome? Or sexy? Either of those really.”  
  
“Are you trying to fuck with me Sansa? I know you’re drunk, but you’re not the type to play this game with a guy like me.”  
  
“No, I’m not trying to fu.. fu.. screw with you. I really mean it.”  
  
“Even a drunk little bird remembers her courtesies, I see.” He grumbles.  
  
“God. Sandor. I’m not trying to fuck with you, okay? If anything, I’m just trying to actually fuck you.” She half screams, with impeccably bad timing, because the DJ had just cut the music to make an announcement and the entire ballroom was staring at them.   
  
Bronn was throwing dagger eyes back at their table, and if looks could kill, Sansa would be dead from the glare fixed on Margaerys face instead of the death by embarrassment she was feeling right now.   
  
Leaning across the table, Sandor runs a calloused hand down Sansa’s arm and wraps his hand around hers, pulling her close to him before he whispers in her ear. “Do you want to get our of here little bird?”  
  
“Yes. I would like that very much.”   
  
Sandor quickly gets up from his chair, walking around the table to where she sits, and helping her to her feet. Sansa teeters on her heels for a minute before Sandor wraps an arm around her waist and picks up her clutch from the table. Very quickly they make their way to the exists, ignoring the questioning looks from the rest of the guests at the wedding.   
  
Once they get outside the hall, Sandor stops suddenly and turns to face her. There’s a look of concern in his eyes, and he cautiously places his hands on her shoulders.   
  
“Are you sure you want this little bird? There’s no going back after this. I can’t just fuck you with no strings attached. I’m not that kind of guy.”  
  
“If this is your way of asking me out, I gotta say it’s working. And I’m not that type of girl either. Can we just get back to your place? This dress is starting to itch and these heels are killing me, and there are bobby pins digging into my scalp.” Sansa knew she was rambling again, and though the cool night air was helping her sober up rather quickly, she was nervous. And she rambles when she’s nervous.   
  
“Come here little bird.” Sandor raps, his voice huskier than normal.   
  
Even though he was leaning down, even though she was in heels, Sandor still had to wrap his arms around her waist to half lift her in order in properly kiss her. And kiss her did he ever do. It was somewhere between tender and searing, his mouth slanting over hers in a kiss he dominated, but Sansa didn’t mind at all. She parted her lips readily for him, his tongue swiping into her mouth fluidly, leaving her breathless and wanting more, more, more.   
  
“We should leave.” Sandor mumbles against her lips, and she giggles once again, shaking her head yes before he hauls her up and over his shoulder like a sack of flour.   
  
“I can walk.”  
  
”You’re still tipsy little bird, and I fully intend on spending our whole night in my bed, not the ER because you can’t walk in fucking heels when you’ve been drinking.” He lets out a big, honest to goodness, barrel laugh while adjusting his grip around her thighs where he hold her to him, digging in the pocket of his dress pants for the keys to his truck.  
  
Sansa just sighs, contented with the delicious view of his ass that this angle is giving her and thanking whatever god was listening for open bars and her best friend getting married.

**Author's Note:**

> WOAH MAN BACK TO WRITING SANSAN! Ahhhhh, it feels so good to be writing this couple again :)
> 
> I don't usually take prompts, mostly because I don't have the time to work on much, but these wedding asks were adorable so I had to do it. Big shout out to bookhoor for giving me free range at picking the prompt as long as it was done in the style of Sansan!


End file.
